A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday or Wednesday night after a long workday, I made this meal for our family: fusilli with roasted garlic, cauliflower, and red peppers; spinach; a couple of tablespoons of diced tomatoes; and oregano and basil. All topped with goat cheese and pine nuts (because we're not animals!)
But it wasn't enough. We needed a side, so I made a Caprese salad with heirloom tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, and fresh basil. Did Craig and the kids like it? Yes they did. But there was this:
- One hour of me cooking, following a chunk of time the day before roasting vegetables;
- A good 45 minutes cleaning everything up.
A bit nuts.
This sort of thing isn't unusual at our house – the weeknight gourmet meal – because I love to cook, and also because I feel a deep compulsion to try to make dinners both healthy and yum. Do you hear echoes of the '50s? Then, too, moms poured untold hours into canned-tomato-soup–based cakes and gelatin-bound meat, vegetable, or fruit salads. Not just the '50s, either. Boeuf Bourguignon in the '60s. Quiche in the '70s. Lasagne in the '80s. And so on.
I came to question all this when I got slammed with the flu this past Monday. SLAMMED. (It was so brutal that I feel the urge to list all my symptoms and pain here now, but don't worry, I am stopping myself.)
Out went the elaborate meals, and in came the pizza, frozen enchiladas, and instant ramen. In came the warm cats to my bed to cuddle, and the husband bringing mugs of chai tea. In came the most wonderful afternoons with my kids. Like, amazing. Lots of movies. Lots of them reading and doing hobbies in my room while I lay prone under heaps of extra blankets for my chills.
I made one dinner: a veggie burger for O (Georgia and Craig were out). I was so foggy that I forgot tomatoes, avocado, pickles, and onion. There was just bun, burger, ketchup, mayo, and relish - an abomination. O bit into the burger and said, "Hmm – it doesn't taste like it usually does ... and it's so thin!" We both looked aghast, and then we started laughing like fools. My cooking failure was so much fun, such a curious bonding moment. "Mom," said Oliver tentatively, "I have really been liking this week with you sick – is that bad?"
After the meal, he poured me a bubbly water and led me upstairs to my bed, letting me whine all the way. He brought in his book of hockey cards and got to work sorting its pages. I crawled deep into the covers and was happy.
My life slowed right down this week, and while I would NEVER wish for the merciless waves of excruciating aches and wretchedness (that I endured so stoically, as you can imagine), I sure did become a fan of frozen and canned dinners. And not once did my family ask for anything better.
Annnd ... now I have a craving for BBQ'd baloney!
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